


Victory is:

by bluepheonix



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Future, Dark, Gen, Why did I do this to MY CHILDREN
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 10:23:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13499956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluepheonix/pseuds/bluepheonix
Summary: Victory was when good ultimately triumphed over evil. At least, that was how Owain had always thought of it.Perhaps if he were selfish enough, he would blame his father’s tales spun from a mind equal parts rotted and beautiful that spoke of a band of misfits who had the audacity to strike down a god.But Owain wasn’t selfish, so he blamed himself instead.





	Victory is:

Victory was when good championed evil, and Owain considered himself Ylisse’s best at differentiating between the two.

He swiftly paced back and forth in the shaded safety of the Ylissean Justice Cabal’s secret base—a large sycamore tree on the edge of castle grounds that was just secluded enough to warrant being the headquarters for such an esteemed organization. His freckled nose was scrunched up, as it always was when he was deep in thought, and his friends watched him with bated breath as he decided their fates before their very eyes. Suddenly, the scuffling of the silly boots that his mother had forced him into slowed to a halt, and he turned to face his comrades, eyes bright and ablaze with excitement.

He ran a chubby hand, sticky from the Ylissean summer heat, through his hair, but only managed to make it even more unruly. His mother probably would have scolded him and brushed out his golden curls until they looked at least somewhat presentable, but Owain liked it when his hair was messy. He thought it made him look like a dashing rogue, or a warrior who had just battled a gigantic dragon for the honor of his princess—both of which were much more interesting things to be than a stuffy prince.

“Alright, everyone.” His youthful voice squeaked in its position of authority. “I’ve made my decision.” He slowly met the gazes of each of the children gathered around him. The whole group seemed to be frozen in this miniscule moment in time--they appeared completely still, chests rising and falling ever so slightly as the light breeze ran its delicate fingers through their disheveled hair. Owain pointed in the direction of a petite girl whose short pigtails were tangled in unruly brunette curls.

“Cynthia,” The girl perked up, sloppily saluting her friend. “As cofounder of the Justice Cabal I hereby dub thee a heroic knight, unstoppable protector of justice with her mighty Pegasus steed!” Cynthia narrowed her eyes in an attempt best to make herself look brave—a look stolen from her father, Exalt Chrom himself, but her her mother’s lopsided grin broke through her stoic mask.

“Yes, sir!” The glee was nearly palpable in her voice as she broke apart from the crowd to stand at Owain’s side.

A few of the other kids groaned.

“Not fair!”

“Cynthia always got to play one of the good guys,” but Owain wasn’t about to forsake the honorary first member of the Justice Cabal.

“Nah and Gerome, you guys can be the evil dragon and the evil dragon’s protector.” A look of irritation flashed across Nah’s delicate features, but she kept her mouth shut, and turned her gaze towards her shoes. Gerome was impassive, as if he had expected this outcome. And rightfully so! Everyone knew that his dark hair and tall stature made him too intimidating to be a hero. Heroes had to be kind and charismatic, that’s what the stories said anyways, and Gerome usually wasn’t either of those things.

“And—“ Owain tapped a finger to his chin. “--Severa and Inigo you guys can be evil too. Luci and Morgan come with me.” Two children nodded, proudly taking their place beside Owain, while Inigo pulled awkwardly at his shirt, before finally obliging and shuffling over to the “villain’s” side.  Severa, however, stayed firmly put and let out an exasperated groan.

“But I want to be with Lucina this time,” She whined, eyes leveled in a glare that shouldn’t have looked so menacing coming from someone with such a small stature.

“Um--” Owain floundered, grasping for a way to prevent his perfectly calculated scenario from being ruined by Severa’s fussiness once again. “How about we do that next time?”

“That’s what you said _last time_.” Owain cursed inwardly, and waited for the girl to protest more, but she simply folded her arms and looked away from him with a huff.

“Alright, then it’s settled.” He announced with an enthusiastic clap of his hands. “The good guys and the bad guys will have an epic battle, and after almost suffering a brutal defeat the Justice Cabal will rise from the ashes and smite the evil dragon!”

“Yeah!” The group cheered, although one half was decidedly less excited than the other.

Owain’s story was perfect. The heroic knights in their too-large armor that was deviously swiped from the castle’s armory then would defeat the—reluctantly--villainous monsters day after day, and live happily ever after, because that was how things were supposed to work out.

 

Weren’t they?

 

* * *

 

Owain used to know what victory was.

 

In his childhood, victory was innocence.

Victory was the excited screams of the Justice Cabal as they tackled Nah into the long, itchy grass, effectively slaying their fearsome dragon foe. Limbs tangled up in a sweaty, dirty pile they would share a hearty laugh together bathed in the Ylissean sunset—their battle between good and evil was over and they were free to do as they pleased. Often, they would lay on a particularly plush patch of grass and sit in silence watching the sun slowly slip beneath the mountains as their exhaustion washed over them like waves lapping a sandy beach.

 

In his adolescence, victory was love.

Victory was the gigantic feasts that his uncle threw when the Ylissean army emerged victoriously from a particularly taxing battle. Chrom would always deliver an exasperatingly long-winded toast honoring nearly every participant in the battle for their service. But such things had their charms. Owain loved watching people’s reactions to Chrom’s excitement—how Olivia would duck her head or Lon’qu’s eyes would soften just a bit, or his mother’s freckly nose would scrunch up, or his father’s eyes would crinkle up when he smiled.

 

In his adulthood, victory was ignorance.

Victory was when the valiant heroes vanquished the evil monsters thus ridding the world of darkness for all eternity. It was the day that his mother burst into the parlour crying that the war with Plegia had finally been won. Owain had probably cried more at that moment than he had in years, but he didn’t really mind. The war that had tried its damnedest to unravel the ties that held his family together was no more. It was worth the choice of sacrificing childhood and the countless nights of sleeping with one eye open as the bitter fear of enemy attack consumed all thoughts. Everyone was safe, and for that he was immensely grateful. He found himself bawling in his mother’s arms, in his father’s arms, in Lucina’s arms, heck, even in Inigo’s arms as he wore the biggest smile.

He failed to notice how his father’s smile no longer reached his eyes, how his words were sharper. Perhaps he had always been that.

They had won the war, he reasoned, so surely they’d finally gotten their happily ever after.

 

* * *

 

Victory was not realizing that the war his kingdom had dedicated years upon years to fighting was only setting the stage for a nefarious plot that was so much bigger than he or anyone else could have ever anticipated.

 He was first told that his father was ill, then that he was mad, then that he had murdered the Exalt of Ylisse in cold blood while singing praises to the fell dragon Grima in erratic fervor, all traces of the levelheaded, loving man he was before replaced with a murderous rage.

Victory was not watching Lucina, courageous, noble and kind, shudder under the title of Exalt thrust upon her when Grima had decimated their troops to the point where she was the only one deemed fit to rule.

She fell to her knees and emptied the contents of her stomach at the feet of her father’s reanimated corpse that she had stuck down only moments before. Severa and Owain rushed to her side to comfort her but she waved them away. She always did hate burdening others with her emotions, but she had always been awful at realizing that bottling all her feelings inside would break herself instead.

 

* * *

 

Morgan’s flaxen curls that were a mirror image of her mother’s were being tousled by the wind’s brutal fury.

Or was it Grima’s fury?

His Father’s fury?

His own fury?

Owain wasn’t really sure anymore, as a thick fog was already beginning to cloud his vision, which caused his head to pound as his eyes strained to see his sister’s face. In his daze, he could no longer tell friend from foe, but that didn’t matter too much when there wasn’t a difference in the first place, did it?

“I’m going to see father again.” Morgan’s empty stare latched onto Owain’s pleading tears and a smile began to creep up her face. He could tell she wasn’t referring to the father they both knew--the father they had once both loved.

“Isn’t that wonderful? You can come too you know?” She looked like an ethereal sort of angel, arms outstretched like wings as she feverishly spouted prayers to a dead god. Owain remained silent, despite every instinct screaming at him to call out.

“Please, ascend with me!” It was a demand rather than a request, but Morgan’s voice cracked in feral desperation. The sound made Owain flinch, and for the first time he really, truly saw his sister standing before him, rather than the madness that had possessed her.

Evidentially, that small lapse in control was the opening the madness needed to possess him as well.

_No_. Owain’s mind screamed, as he half-processed what was going on, but his feet were already frozen in place. Fear took the form of a blade of ice lodged deeply in the pit of his stomach as his body breathed and blinked and smiled without his input. He felt intoxicated by the same power that had made him want to retch only moments earlier.

It laced the air, pierced bone and sinew, and had already defiled his heart.

“Yes.” Dripped from his lips, and Morgan’s smile grew.

 

* * *

 

Victory was not watching his sword move almost autonomously towards his sister’s neck, creating a fountain of rusty copper where silver blade met pale, waxy skin. It wasn’t watching her agonized screams rip through the air as her ecstatic tears diluted the blood that now ran hot and thick across his trembling hands.

“Thank you.” Her voice echoed inside the dark confines of his mind, a somber song that danced precariously to the tune of his steadily beating heart.

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you so very much.”

**Author's Note:**

> Something I wrote a few years ago when I had first finished Awakening. Thought I'd put it here rather than letting it rot away on my hard drive. Enjoy!


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